


Mercury Rising

by PotterPasta



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Original Character(s), Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Second Person, Post-Apocalypse, Rating May Change, References to David Bowie, The bad guys are actually the good guys, everyone is a rock band, references to classic rock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 15:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18813592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PotterPasta/pseuds/PotterPasta
Summary: A global disaster has left humanity living in the ruins of society, afraid for their lives.A group of bloodthirsty assassins take advantage of the situation, wreaking havoc in the night and leaving a trail of fear in their wake.Only fools would travel the shadows at night.Or so everyone thought.





	Mercury Rising

You open your eyes, ever so slowly. The starlight hits them, you blink. You sit up, bones creaking. Something drips down your face, and you rub it away. Some kind of thick, black liquid. You’re not sure if it’s blood or if it’s oil that dripped onto you from one of the wrecked machines that occupy the ruined warehouse you’ve been living in. Could be both. Could be neither. You’re not sure you want to find out. You stretch and stand. It’s probably sometime around midnight. That means it’s safe to go gather supplies. Everyone else will be asleep, which means no one to bother you. Except them, but if they come, it’s too late anyway. You pick up your bat and your basket. Tonight you’ll be looking for first aid kits. Those are getting rare. You set off, making sure to stick to the darkest shadows, that way no one sees you. Most tend to walk in the light, so they don’t get taken by the Midnight Runners. You don’t really care anymore. You make your way down the alley and behind what used to be a gas station. You slip inside and start raiding the shelves. Looks like this one hasn’t been hit yet. There’s still hot chocolate mix in one of the coffee machines. There’s still creamers, too. You toss the Irish Cream in your basket and start chugging a French Vanilla. You grab a few cloth shopping bags from behind the counter and head towards the free healthcare clinic. Hopefully it’s been missed too. You’re almost there when you hear voices. You duck behind an old phone booth and wait. A group of about three men goes past. Despite having most likely not bathed in months, their hairstyles are still styled in the trendiest pre-disaster fashion. Two of them are in torn sports jerseys, the other dons a ragged polo. All three have flashlights. They rush past, seemingly worried about the possibility of a run-in with the Midnight Runners. You smirk. Oh how fun it would be to give these preps the fright of their life, but you decide against it. After they disappear from sight, you make your way towards the clinic once more. You have to dodge a few puddles of what may or may not be oil and water, but you reach your destination without soaking you shredded boots in the most likely flammable liquid. You find the place in relatively decent shape. If anything, it looks better than it did when it was open, pre-disaster. You sneak inside and grab anything worth it. Bandages, antibiotic cream, rubbing alcohol pads, a bottle of peroxide. You even get some old tabloids for your fire pit. It’s when you step out in the star light long enough to reach for the cup of pens and a box of band-aids that a hand darts out of the shadows and grabs your wrist. You yank the hand’s owner out of the shadows and slam them to ground, dropping your goods in the process. They kick out their leg and trip you, but you catch yourself on the counter, shooting pain through your hands and up your arms. You stomp on their gut and ready your bat. You look down at the person, curled up on the ground holding their stomach and groaning. You can’t bring yourself to finish the job. You strap your bat on your back and scrounge around the cabinets until you find a bottle of painkillers. After tossing the bottle at the person, you gather your goods and begin walking to another room.  
“Hey, wait.”  
You turn around.  
“You fight good.”  
“Thanks.”  
You start off again, but are interrupted once more.  
“Only Raiders and Midnight Runners creep around after dark.”  
“So?”  
“So which are you?”  
You raise your brow in confusion. This person can’t be serious.  
“That’s a joke. It’s pretty obvious you’re a raider. If you were a runner, I’d already know you.”  
“Why’s that?”  
“Because I’m one.”  
You stop. This person on the floor, this person who couldn’t even handle a small scuffle, is a legendary Midnight Runner?  
“Very funny. If that were true, I’d be dead.”  
“Why’s that?”  
“No one who’s gone out and met the Runners has ever come back to tell the tale.”  
“I, uh, well when you put it that way, I can see why everyone would think we’re some kind of shadow assassins.”  
“If you aren’t killers, then why does no one come back?”  
The person tries to stand. They grab the counter but can’t get a grip. You help them up.  
“Thanks. Uh, anyway so basically we find skilled raiders and the helpless and bring them back to our base. We’ve got kind of a community. We call it Midnight Village. The Midnight Runners are our raiders. We go out, gather supplies, and divvy them up amongst the villagers as needed.”  
“Then why did you attack me?”  
“Apologies. I was trying to get your attention. In hindsight, maybe jumping out of the shadows and grabbing you wasn’t the best idea.”  
“Agreed. But why?”  
“You’ve got skills. I mean, I didn’t even notice you were here until you stepped into the light. And all that stuff, is that just from tonight?”  
“Yeah.”  
“Impressive. Good sneak, good gathering, good fight. Someone like you would be a good addition to the Runners. What do you say?”  
The deal is tempting. You’ve been by yourself since the disaster. Having the support of an entire village sounds nice. But you don’t even know this person. They could be trying to lower your guard.  
“Sorry, I don’t usually go wandering off with strangers.”  
“Then don’t think of me as a stranger. Think of me as Clash. That’s what the villagers call me.”  
“Hmm. But that still leaves me a stranger.”  
“Can’t be a stranger if you tell me your name.”  
They stick their hand out.  
You smirk. Clash is very persuasive. Either that or you’re just really lonely.  
You shake Clash’s hand and smile.  
“Call me Dexys.”

**Author's Note:**

> Henlo! So i wrote this for my bookclub but I really liked where I was going with it, so I may continue it?  
> Loosely inspired by Hirohiko Araki and JoJo's Bizarre Adventure.  
> My main inspiration for finally posting this comes from shhimdreaminng on tumblr uwu  
> Follow me! @diopuccitrash on tumblr


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